


The Last Time

by Pashalawa



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Dumb Love, Friends to Lovers, M/M, When you know you shouldn't do it but you do it anyway, the importance of fight club
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28807746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pashalawa/pseuds/Pashalawa
Summary: What's the first rule of Fight Club? You pretend it never happened, make sure it doesn't happen again, and live in ignorant bliss of your emotions.Oh wait, that's not Fight Club. That's Brad's method for dealing with the fact that he has the resolve of a flower petal when it comes to Ray and can't stop thinking about how his nose is actually pretty cute for something so crooked.A take on the early stages of BradRay.
Relationships: Brad Colbert/Ray Person
Comments: 12
Kudos: 35





	1. The Fourth Last Time

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy my take on a questionable BradRay timeline. I prefer thinking of them as having been dabbling in a relationship Pre-Iraq. They got that married couple 'we're on a break because of war but we're actually really bad at being on a break' vibe. 
> 
> I'm actually not sure that realistically Brad would have a place off base at this point but you know what? THIS IS OUR WORLD. I do what I want here folks, cowabunga. 
> 
> Rated T for Ray and Brad being Ray and Brad, lots of discussion of sex but no actual graphic description, and for all the Brad Pitt talk. 
> 
> Based on character interpretations as portrayed in the series 'Generation Kill'. Not meant to be reflective of the actual boys out there livin' their lives and doin' their best. Hats off.

Brad had slept with Ray three times, and it would never happen again. 

The first time, in Australia, was simply a byproduct of being incredibly drunk, and incredibly horny. It had nothing to do with Brad’s long-standing affection for Ray that had started to exponentially increase by the day and reached a peak when, at 0100 in a crowded bar blasting some song Brad had never heard of, Ray spent at least fifteen minutes advocating for not only the existence of Bigfoot, but the existence of Bigfoot-related species such as Yeti and Sasquatch due to a branch of evolution extended from something called a Gigantopithecus. And also, apparently, his cousin had found one in the woods when he was camping and it attacked his truck which was why the front end was smashed (not an accident, no no. It was Bigfoot.) For some reason, in that moment, Brad had decided that he was into that. 

Yes, into _that_. 

It defied all explanation so Brad considered it a fluke. When they’d woken up that morning, tangled in bed sheets that smelled like sweat and sex, it took one shared look between them to understand they were on the same page. This hadn’t happened. They weren’t going to talk about it. They weren’t going to think about it and they were going to go on with their lives and friendship as normal. 

It was supposed to be the first and only time. 

It was not. 

It had happened _twice_ more, in fact, and Brad couldn’t even blame that on being drunk or lulled into some Bigfoot-induced hypnosis. No, the second time and third time had both happened at his house, out of nowhere. One minute, Brad had been about to murder Ray and hide his body in the backyard over his opinions on box wine, and the next he’d been complaining about the flavor of gum Ray had been chewing earlier because his mouth still tasted like bubblegum and it was throwing off his make out game. 

But dammit, _dammit_ , the third time was the _last_ time. 

There were several very firm reasons for this. Reasons such as DADT, certainly, but more specifically there were fraternization regulations and the oh-so-charming optics of a sergeant sleeping with his RTO. It became less charming the more Brad thought about it. There were all kinds of issues that bubbled up there when he let his focus burn on it too long: power dynamics, rank pressure, all the uncomfortable thoughts he’d tossed on Ray the first time they’d slept together to make absolutely certain, _absolutely certain_ , that their respectives ranks didn’t play into it. Worse, reasons related to the fact that Brad knew better than most what happened when you got too close to a person. He had lost his fiance and two best friends in one moment. He couldn’t lose another and if that meant he couldn’t kiss Ray’s incredibly stupid bullshit-spouting face, then so be it. 

It would never happen again. 

And so, about a week later from the last last time, the normal routine returned. Ray would escape the ‘stepford wives military edition’ tyranny of base whenever he could, normally on weekends when he hadn’t otherwise messed up his chance at a pass off. Those weekends were usually spent camped on Brad’s couch, and Brad usually welcomed the company. 

That day, Ray came over at noon and had parked in his marked spot on Brad’s couch. Normally that would have been business as usual. They’d sit and play video games, or watch reruns of South Park, and then at some point they’d have at least an hour long argument over what to order for food. It was a very comforting ritual that had become...interrupted...by the fact that not once, not twice, but three times now that ritual had not ended with Ray leaving at 4 in the morning after dozing on the couch in the middle of Ghostbusters. It had ended with him in Brad’s bed. 

Not this time! Not this time at all. Brad had kept himself very busy today. As Ray flopped around on his couch, Brad busied his hands by fixing the drip in his sink and reorganizing his pantry and at one point he sat at the table and took to polishing his own boots and dress shoes just to make sure he didn’t end up where he had the last few times. His house smelled like the sharp scent of shoepolish, and every time he looked over at the living room all he could see was Ray’s new position—sometimes a leg haphazardly thrown over the back of the couch, sometimes two legs up in the air like a sleeping dog. He could never sit _normally_. It was cute. Brad hated it. 

While he worked they talked idly, and Brad repeatedly refused Ray’s offers to help with any of the household chores that had suddenly been moved to the highest priority. Otherwise, it was the same as it always was. There was a level of comfort that Brad almost took for granted—the fact that Ray was such a constant as of late that it didn’t feel weird to do other things while he was around. He felt no pressure to entertain or occupy him. Ray didn’t need to ask for a drink, he knew where they were. He didn’t need permission to raid Brad’s cabinets and fish out a bag of chips because he’d been there when Brad bought them. Ray felt almost like a roommate. Until he hadn’t. 

It was folding the laundry that screwed him. Brad sat on his couch while he folded, so he could watch the movie that Ray was watching because fuckery be damned, when Fight Club was on, you watched Fight Club. The soft clothes in his hands and the gentle smell of Downy started to push back the earlier polish smell that lingered in his nose. Soon he’d stacked all his clothes on the opposite chair, crisp and lint-free. Brad’s busy hands had run out of things to do, and his brain had run out of tasks to plan, so he stayed on the couch, a mere two feet away from Ray.

“There are so many damn Starbucks references in this movie, you realize that? It’s this movie right here, this moment in time, that allowed Starbucks to take over every fuckin’ corner in the whole continental United States. If they had made this deal, with like, Joe’s Mad Coffee Club? Then we’d be sittin’ here sipping out of mad mugs and talking about how much we love the new hazelnut-bust coffee. You know what, I just made that up, but I think I have a future in, like, branding. I bet I could come up with a fucking hilarious coffee place. I could run Starbucks out of business. I could. Think about it. The morning ‘Wank Up’ special. The Flat White Ass, which we could just call that the ‘Lilley’, right?”

Brad was, fortunately, not paying attention to Ray’s commentary on Fight Club. Clearly not, because he let Ray get away with not admitting that the best candidate for ‘flat white ass’ was the whiskey tango cow tipper next to him. 

Maybe if he had paid attention, he’d be able to knock himself out of the trance he found himself in. Although trance? Perhaps not the right word. That was too magical, too soothing and fluttery. It was more like he was a sea turtle stuck in a fishing net. 

Ray sat on his couch with his legs crossed. He’d kicked off his sneakers at the door, partly because they looked like they’d somehow time traveled from an era before roads were paved and Brad could not stand to have them tracking their ancient, hillbilly mud all over his wood floors. But now he could see that Ray’s blue rubber duck sock had a hole in it, right at the big toe. Above that hole, his knee bobbed in a manifestation of what Brad could only assume was Ray’s restless body syndrome. The fabric of his basketball shorts had slid up his thigh and Brad could track right where his tan leached away into pale skin. Not that you’d be able to tell from a distance, because as small as Ray was, he had the hairiness of a sasquatch. Then Ray dragged his hand down to dust it off against his thigh, sprinkling his skin, shorts, and oh holy hell, Brad’s _couch_ with cheeto dust. 

The goddamn nerve he had. Brad almost said something, but then he watched Ray bring his fingers up to his mouth to suck off the excess cheeto dust. Ray went in from the side, like he was gnawing on corn, palm turned to his own cheek—and then he dunked that hand right back into the bag of cheetos. 

“Ray,” Brad said, before he could really stop himself. Had he the sense, he might have let it go. Better to pretend he _hadn’t_ been watching Ray with the kind of intensity that he watches slow motion touchdown replays with. But there were certain things that couldn’t be ignored. “I saw you lick your fingers and stick them back in the bag.” 

“So?” Ray scoffed at him and grinned, pulling his hand out so he could wiggle the offending fingers at his friend. “These are my cheetos homes, it’s part of my ecosystem now.” 

“An ecosystem headed for immediate extinction, I presume,” Brad noted, and then turned back to the movie in question. He tried to focus on that instead. He liked this movie, he and Ray knew most of the lines. Hell, he was banking on the fact that on those long slow days they’d be able to recite the movie from memory. 

The glow of the TV was bright. They’d been sitting on the couch together for long enough that the sun had set and Brad hadn’t gotten up to turn on any lights. The dark around them was occasionally blasted back by the changing colors of Fight Club scenes. He was not going to look at Ray anymore. They were friends, and they needed to stay that way. Some things were far too important to lose. 

“You know, Tyler was the first dude I had a crush on,” Ray said suddenly, and Brad blinked at the switch in conversation. The last he’d heard from Ray, he’d been going on about how he’d have kicked ass in Fight Club— a comment that Brad would normally be set on ripping apart. He was farther away tonight.

“...really?” Brad asked the question lightly, as if this were as nonconsequential as any other question. Of course, it _was._ At least, in a sense. He hoped Ray knew he could trust him with anything. The only difference here was that Brad had already been inside Ray, so this conversation about men they found attractive might lead to a place that he was very firmly trying to ignore. That place was, of course, back inside Ray. 

“Yeah, man. I mean, look at the guy, he’s fuckin’ hot. And the rules speech? Hot. That _jacket_? Hot.” Ray pointed to the screen with his normal fanfare, almost raising up slightly with the exertion. “It wasn’t like I was going in blind or anything. I tried some early Jesus pray the gay away shit first, except like, it was less about Jesus and more about submitting myself to the church of tit and pussy with our lord and savior Pamela Anderson. I figured if anyone could smack the dick out of my brain, it wouldn’t be God, it would be Pamela Anderson. But fuck...I saw this movie and I knew, like, yeah. I’d suck a dick. Especially if it was attached to someone like that. Then it was like a fuckin’ mission that only I knew about. I’m gonna find that dick to suck.” 

There was a pregnant pause in the air. It may have been dead silent, if there wasn’t a raucous fight on the tv screen in front of them. Brad always saw through Ray. He said things so easily, but that was practiced. It was intentional. Brad knew it was a safety mechanism, so that if his words weren’t received well he could back out of them with a joke. I was only kidding, homes. No big deal. 

But it was a big deal. No matter how Ray framed it, this was a personal conversation about something that as far as Brad knew, only they knew about each other. And as the silence continued, Ray started to get nervous. One leg came out from its tucked position to stretch out against the coffee table. His fingers drummed along his bony knee. 

And then Brad frowned. “Are you…” He paused, suddenly wrapping his head around perhaps the _wrong_ focus of that admission. “Are you saying that I was your knock off Brad Pitt?” 

It might not have been the right thing to say, but it worked. Ray’s loud barking laughter immediately released the squeeze in Brad’s chest. “Brad you’re one cocky motherfucker. Look at that guy. You think you’re close to that guy?” Ray crowed, knees tucking up to his chest as he laughed, eyes swallowed by the joy that his wide smile carved out of his face. Brad liked that laugh the most. It was the real one, the one he could say without a shadow of doubt that Ray couldn’t hold back even if he wanted to. 

“What the fuck do you mean, close to that guy?” Brad tried to maintain a level of playful annoyance, but he gave up. That’s what always happened, wasn’t it. He could try to be as distant and above it as he wanted, but Ray always found a way in. He always had. He probably always would. Like a really annoying kitchen rat that snuck in and nibbled only slightly at every single one of your apples. “I’m leagues above that guy. That’s disrespectful.” 

If Ray’s face was anything to go by, Brad was unconvincing. Ray nodded, deep and slow, mouth held in an exaggerated ‘O’ as his eyes went as wide as they could. “Oh, okay, of course. You are definitely _leagues_ above 1995’s sexiest man alive, Brad. What the fuck was I thinking. I should have been jacking off to _you_ all those years. The fuckin’ nerve I have.” 

The laughter died down between them like a rock finally settling on the ocean floor. Those jokes used to make Brad laugh—it was funny, right. But now there was something else behind it, because they’d fucked. Not once, no no. Not even twice. Three times. Three times, Brad hadn’t been able to control his damn self and now…

...Now the jokes weren’t so funny anymore. Now it just reminded him of what he couldn’t have, and in a _very_ unfair event of transitive property, that reminded him of how much they’d changed between them already. He should be laughing. He _would_ have been laughing. 

Ray wasn’t talking anymore. He’d gone quiet, and Brad could see him in his peripheral dipping his hand into the bag of cheetos with his eyes trained on the screen. The flashing of the scenes lit up his angles. Brad could tell the curve of his adam’s apple, he could see the shadow of his nose. It was crooked, Brad knew, from a fight he’d gotten into in high school. Randy Snipley, that was the guy’s name. Some big bully that Ray mouthed off to, back when he was a nerdy little band geek and couldn’t throw a punch if it was in a juice box. He’d fought him anyway. Ray was like that. Brad got the vivid memory of watching him in Oceanside, running drills long after everyone else because he just _had_ to say something about regulation haircuts. But he didn’t complain about it. He did his assigned work and he’d been panting and smiling and sweaty when he walked past Brad. _I’m serious homes. Whoever they’re letting shave heads has the precision of a blind manatee._

Brad closed the gap between them in a second, which must have startled Ray because he let the cheetos slip from his hands and fall sideways onto the floor (a travesty that Brad would address after he’d scratched this particular itch). Ray let himself fall back, even as his head thunked uncomfortably on the couch arm that was just a hair too hard by the sound of it. Then Brad swept in, up Ray’s body like a wave, lips missing first just to the side of his lips before Ray corrected him. 

He tasted cheetos. He _felt_ cheetos, the remnants of chewed chip and dust, which was _truly_ disturbing, but not as disturbing as stopping felt. So Brad didn’t. He dealt with it, because underneath that was Ray—who despite not being a very practiced kisser as a former debate member and band nerd, moved lips against him so easily it felt like safety. Brad felt one socked foot slide along the outside of his calf and he shifted to make enough room for the knee Ray was trying to cock to the side. Then his hand naturally fell against the slight divot of Ray’s waist. His fingers squeezed into fabric before he decided that cotton was not the contact he wanted right now. Instead he snaked his hand underneath the shirt, right up Ray’s side until he could feel the change from smooth abdomen muscle to the ridged hardness of his ribs. It earned him a shiver, so he—

A steady palm pressed against his chest. 

“Wait,” Ray said in a gasp of air, because neither of them had remembered that perhaps it would be a good idea to breathe. That concept had always seemed stupid to Brad—who could be so enveloped in kissing a person that they’d _forget_ to breathe? It takes two seconds to take in an airful! Yet here he was, panting, a little sweaty as he reared away from Ray and allowed the hand pressing against him to stretch out. 

_Wait_. 

Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck, fuck... _fuck_ him. If Brad could kick his own ass, he certainly would. He’d set some damn limits for the both of them, and then _one_ gay thought later about Ray’s crooked nose and here he was, licking second hand cheetos off of Ray’s teeth (so gross, so unfair, why). The interruption left him a little dazed, even as he stared back at Ray. 

His eyebrows managed to seem both furrowed and raised at the same time, which Brad might have thought was cute had he not been in the throes of self-flagellation. He took a few breaths in as Tyler spouted off in the background. The lights of the movie flashed around them. All he felt was Ray’s hand on his peck, the pressure in the fingertips and the hot, damp feel of it. 

“You said that was the last time,” Ray said finally, and Brad wondered if he could feel how hard his heart was beating, right under his palm. “You—you said that was what you wanted. So if that’s not what you wanted...or if it is what you want, then, you know, you should say that before we...do anything.” 

And lo and behold, it was Ray being the responsible one. How’s that for a slap in the face. Brad blinked, and through the tumble of thoughts in his head he couldn’t manage an answer. Instead he slowly backed off of Ray so that he was no longer looming over him. His hand slipped out from under his shirt and he pushed himself up until he was back where he’d been before he’d seen Ray’s nose. Back to normal. Nothing had happened. 

He half expected Ray to straighten and sweep up the cheetos. He’d eat one off the floor, and Brad would call him a barn animal, and then things would be status quo and settled. Ray always set things back to baseline. It was something Brad considered enviable about his personality. Even the most dreadful circumstance felt bearable with Ray and his off-color humor and strange observations. 

This time, Ray didn’t absorb the stillness. He stayed laid back for a second after Brad got off of him, and then...then he slowly rolled up, tilting his neck back and forth, wiping the palms of his hands against the smooth material of his shorts. Brad watched him swallow, and even in the dark and the changing glow of the TV, he knew the exact shade of pink that was flushed to Ray’s cheeks. “I’m gonna head out, if that’s cool. But I’ll see you later. Uh, you know. The thing, with the people...down at the place.” Ray shook his head after a short series of blinks, and Brad knew he was clearing his own fog. Fog that he’d caused. 

Something burned in his chest, and he could swear that his _saliva glands_ hurt somewhere in the pocket of his jaw as he clenched it. This was what he was afraid of. Everything else, yes. God, yes, was he afraid of losing his career. But losing Ray...at this point, he knew that would hurt worse. And there was more than one way to lose him. He’d opened a new door the second he’d pressed him up against that wall in that hotel room and now, worse, he was hurting him too. 

“Okay,” Brad said, because there was nothing else to say. He turned to face the TV and caught sight of the coffee table. One side was immaculate with one beer opened on a coaster. The other side was a mess of cups of water, a half eaten sandwich, what looked like a jar of peanut butter (when the hell had he gotten into the peanut butter?), and a few stray cheetos. It was a mess, and it made the corner of Brad’s mouth quirk up. He glanced back to the couch—but Ray was gone. 

Oh, not gone. Just hovering by the doorway on one foot, trying to pull the back of his shoe around his heel with all the grace of a lumbering walrus. Brad stood up from the couch and walked to the back of it, a solid six feet away because he didn’t know the proper amount of space to afford your best friend after you’ve made out with him and then abruptly stopped making out with him because you can’t let yourself make out with him for fear of a great many different things. Six feet sounded good enough. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Brad asked, and it almost didn’t sound like his voice. He cleared his throat and closed a fist rest on his side. Very casual, he was. The picture of nonchalance. “At the—the thing, with the people, down at the place, was it?” 

Ray laughed, but it was dry and hollow sounding as he finally got his shoe on properly. Brad watched his eyes dart around for his keys. Brad picked them up from the kitchen table where he remembered they’d been hiding under a chinese menu Ray had found in the mail. His mail. Brad’s mail. 

There were pieces of Ray all over his house. 

“Yeah, tomorrow. Thing, people, place,” Ray repeated, and Brad tried to smile at the half-hearted salute he got in return. As Ray opened the door into the chilly night air, Brad stepped to hold it in place. The street was quiet, but he could hear the buzzing sound that the streetlight near his house made, and down a few houses it sounded like someone was just getting home. The distant slam of a car door felt a little too on the nose, metaphorically. “Well...yeah. Bye,” Ray said, and after one last look, he turned and stepped off the porch. Brad didn’t watch him get to his car, though he had to fight against the urge to remind Ray that his shoelace was coming untied. Instead he turned away and looked at the side of his door. He ran his finger over the metal lock before he shut it with an open palm. Nothing left but to wait for the small sound of the lock sliding into place. 

Only he didn’t get to hear that latch click shut. Just before he had fully closed the door, it burst open like a blown hatch and knocked Brad straight in the nose, hard enough to send him stumbling back a few paces. He bumped against his thin entryway table tucked against the wall and had to take his hand away from his nose to steady the fern that would have tumbled to the floor. Crisis averted. He’d rather a broken nose than a broken fern.

“Ohoho fuck, oh my god, dude—I’m fuckin’ sorry, are you okay?” Ray was laughing, at least partially laughing in that way one does when someone you care about is hurt but in a funny way. “Dude I didn’t think you’d be right there, you’re so damn slow I figured you’d be back at the couch by now. Is it bleeding? I say if it’s broken we lie and say you got in a wicked bar fight for street cred. There was this dude, right, like, a real fuckin stone giant. Solid as a shit house, six foot...eh, six? Gotta be taller than you. Like a giant, dude, and he came at you outta nowhere. Or maybe not, maybe you took the hit for someone else. You know, real bogus savior-type shit.” 

“Ray,” Brad pinched the bridge of his nose, which certainly throbbed but took the back seat to a far more pressing subject. His hand dropped to the side and he stared at Ray, in a shirt that Brad definitely hated, standing in the frame of his door like it had been built for him. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He never knew how to find the words. 

But Ray always did. “Shut up?” He questioned, and then it was him closing the gap between them. Brad might have moved like the ocean, but Ray moved like a storm, hard and fast and with an energy sparking in him that was felt before it was seen. “Way the fuck ahead of you.” 

Standing, you see, presented a slight difficulty to making out with Ray. His mouth was way down there, and Brad’s was not, but that didn’t seem to slow Ray down. Instead, Ray curled a hand in the fabric of Brad’s shirt, right at the neckline, and yanked him down. The force hurled them together, and Brad’s nose hit a little too hard against Ray’s. The flare of pain was nothing compared to the rush of _right_ that followed. 

Over the past few months, Brad had struggled trying to place exactly what it was about Ray that was different. It certainly wasn’t the sex itself. No offense, but Brad had had better, objectively speaking. It wasn’t a knock on Ray, not in the least. Ray was inexperienced, and Brad had a habit of paying people who made a career out of knowing exactly what to do in bed and when to do it. So, sex crossed out, Brad had considered that possibly it was the secret disastrous nature of it all that made it good. But that wasn’t true. As easy an answer it would be, it just wasn’t him. So if it wasn’t the actual tactical refinement of the sex, and it wasn’t the mystery of it all...then it must have been Ray himself. Brad felt it then. It _was_ Ray. 

That was terrifying. 

Best not to think about it. 

This angle was not working for him. He had two options: the table, or the couch. The couch was closer, and it was probably more comfortable, and eagerness aside...Brad didn’t quite have a burning desire to have sex where he ate. So he backed Ray up until he bumped against the back of the couch, and then he lifted him up onto it—not an easy task. Ray might have been slight, but he was densely packed with muscle. The deceptive weight had thrown Brad off more than a few times, but he was prepared for it now. He felt the grunt against his mouth as Ray shifted on the edge of the couch back and Brad pressed into him. The sweet spot. 

Sweet spot bliss was magical. It was the point where kissing stopped feeling like effort and started feeling as simple as floating in water. It was the optimal spot for prolonged smacking. Unfortunately...it lasted about fifteen seconds. 

“Wait,” Ray said, into Brad’s mouth, against his lips. Brad’s stomach bottomed out, but before he pulled away, Ray’s leg kicked out hard and then hooked around him. As the heel of a rubber sneaker dug into the back of his thigh, he understood. Ray didn’t want to stop, but he was falling back. Brad had leaned too far in, and he’d lost his balance on the slim, hard edge of the couch back. “Wait wait wait.”

Ray dipped back, hand gripping into Brad’s bicep so he wouldn’t completely fall back on the couch. Under that shirt, Brad knew his muscles were engaged, and it was kind of hot, really, this extended mid sit-up position. But he wasn’t here to admire, he was here to engage. So he abruptly tipped Ray back. 

Ah, too hard. Brad overcorrected, and as he pulled Ray up the couch lurched with his momentum. He tried to catch it, but Ray’s weight carried it down, and then they were both on the ground with a loud crash. 

“You fuckin’ idiot,” Ray barked, his laugh louder than the sound of the couch hitting the ground. He was angled strangely, ass on the back on the couch as his body rested on the cushions. There was a smattering of cheeto dust that he’d left behind earlier now close to his head. Brad didn’t care. He laughed too and his arm pressed against the cushion on the _other_ side of Ray’s head while he watched his friend’s eyes squeeze shut in joy. Ray’s tongue poked out of his teeth as he tried to stop laughing. “What the hell was that?” 

“What do you mean what the hell was that. You’re so fucking short I had to lift you up onto something. I’m sorry I don’t have a children’s bathroom stool available for you, I’ll put it on my list,” Brad said, grinning all the while as he lurched back in to swallow up Ray’s laugh with his lips. On the floor, on the couch, it didn’t really matter where, at this point. 

“I’m not—” Oh, he’s trying to say something. “Short you—” It’s not anything important. “Motherfucker and you—” Ah, an and. He had more to say. “Know it—” Mhmm. Sure he did. “We can’t let the—” Wow. Impressive. “Tall people define—” He can still follow a train of thought? Brad must be losing his touch. “What is short and what—” Oh my god, he’s still talking. “Isn’t short because—Ow! What the fuck, Brad.” 

Brad had pinched Ray’s side, just a test, and the jump and indignant screech he got was certainly worth it. “I’m looking for your off switch,” Brad mumbled and changed tactics. He kissed down Ray’s neck, searching for the spot he’d found last time: the melting point.

“Nice try, but I don’t have one. I’m solar charged, homes,” Ray said, and Brad settled a bit by his throat to feel the rumble of his words as they went by. He almost successfully ignored him. Almost. His hand slipped between Ray and the couch so he could cup the back of his head and he got on one knee so he could get closer, he—

Wait, what? “Solar charged things still have off buttons. They’re not eternally on. That comparison doesn’t work.” Brad pulled away to squint at Ray, who had actually started to seem quietly sated. Brad’s lip removal was not approved if the disgruntled look Ray gave him was anything to go by. He raised an eyebrow and shrugged one shoulder as he felt Ray’s hands crawling (literally crawling, like spiders) up his chest to tug at the neckline of his shirt. “I’m just saying.” 

Ray rolled his eyes and tugged again, impatient, annoyed at this call out. That made Brad smile. Ray was a smart guy. One could say he was much too smart to be doing anything less than something extraordinary. But in Brad’s opinion, that made calling him out on his trip-ups all the more satisfying. “You know what I meant.” 

He did. But still. 

Brad was a gentleman though. He graciously continued his search for the spots that made a difference. He found one along Ray’s collarbone, and another closer up by his ear. While a part of his mind tried to commit those spots to memory, another specifically tried to forget them. That small, distant voice, like a far-away megaphone: _this is not going to happen!_ But fuck it, it was happening now. 

Ray didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, and it was very cute. They were everywhere. On Brad’s chest, around his back. Eventually they settled to hook around his neck, and Brad had almost forgotten. 

Almost. 

“It’s just that it’s so clear that you were confusing charging ports for activation buttons,” Brad said, pulling away again despite Ray’s squawk of disapproval and the sound of his head thunking against the soft couch cushions as he rolled his eyes. 

“Oh my _god_ , you are such a nerd. Where is _your_ off button, Colbert.” Brad watched Ray’s eyes widen, almost comically, as Brad tilted his head and pursed his lips. A very ‘you know where it is’ look if there ever was one. Ray gasped and thwacked Brad’s chest with the back of his hand. “I cannot be-fucking-lieve you’d dare ask me to suck your dick in the presence of Brad Pitt. That’s sacrilege. That’s unamerican. That’s _scandalous_.” 

Now Brad was laughing. “Oh I’m sorry I had no idea you had the sensibilities of an 80-year-old geriatric,” he said, and then lifted up so he could see the TV beyond the rise of the flipped couch. The movie was almost over. “Besides, he’s almost done. He won’t see.” 

Ray’s smile morphed into a sneaky little grin, the kind they shared when they were both laughing at the same ridiculous thing someone had said. “Well maybe now I want him to see.” Ray’s arm came back around Brad’s neck to weigh him in closer, and he didn’t fight it. 

“ _That_ is scandalous,” Brad countered. “And first, I’m going to need you to say it.” 

Confusion sparked across Ray’s face as Brad laughed and pulled back. This angle was also not working for him. His knee was starting to hurt, and he was sure Ray’s back was aching. “Say what,” Ray asked as his hand fell from Brad’s shoulder. 

“You know.” Brad stood up and stretched, joints cracking as he raised his arms high above his head. That was another thing that felt different with Ray. That passion, the sharp need and pressing desire? It was all there. But something else was there too. The comfort of stopping, of knowing they could dive right back into it. It felt strange to Brad. Like he was already on third base of a relationship that was only just starting ( _never going to start!_ That little voice called). 

As he held out a hand to help Ray up, he got the pleasure of watching the realization dawn on his face. “Oh my god, you really are a fucking nerd,” Ray said. As he came up to his feet, he rolled his eyes so heartily Brad thought it probably hurt. Then he raised one hand over his heart, and the other facing palm forward, head level. “I solemnly swear that Brad Colbert is _leagues_ above Brad Pitt, and will always be, forever and infinitely, the more attractive Brad.” 

Oh it was so stupid.   
  


But fuck, was it satisfying. 

In the end, Brad Pitt did not get to witness anything juicy. Brad and Ray realigned the couch, and Ray picked the cheetos off the floor, and Brad got a glass of water and then got one for Ray because he knew he’d need one. Then they went to the bedroom, a place that was wonderfully void of Brad Pitt, and spent the night doing everything Brad said he absolutely wasn’t going to do again. He had plenty of opportunities to change course. They both did. Neither of them wanted to, in the end. 

In the end, Brad had fucked Ray four times. 

He stared up at his ceiling, a good hour and a half later. He allowed himself ten minutes to revel in the rightness that he felt. Ten minutes, and then he’d tell Ray what they both knew. 

“I must be pretty fuckin’ irresistable, huh?” Ray said, barging in on Brad’s train of heavy thoughts. Brad looked to his side where Ray was laying, arm propped to hold up his head, elbow deep into one of Brad’s specially bought pillows. He was wiggling his eyebrows, and his lips were red and slightly swollen. “What was it?”

“Hm?” Brad blinked and then reached out to swipe away a small thread that had attached to Ray’s close military cut, right at his hairline. It must have been from when he pulled his shirt over his head. It certainly wasn’t from Brad’s sheets. These were good, new sheets. “What was what?”

“You know, the thing that made you go all Mr. Darcy, I must have you now. We were sitting there and then _you_ got triggered, and I wanna know what it was,” Ray said pointedly. Damn. He was smarter than he looked, this little banjo yodeler. 

Brad considered blowing him off. He considered rolling his eyes and pulling one of the pillows from the floor to whack Ray in the face. Then he...didn’t. Maybe it was the after sex calm, maybe it was the rightness, maybe it was because he still had seven minutes to pretend...but he didn’t. “It was your nose,” he admitted, and then shook his head. “I can’t say why, it’s one ugly busted-up whiskey tango nose.” 

The insults didn’t sway Ray. They never had, because he saw through them. His grin was so big that it reminded Brad of the cat from Alice in Wonderland. “That’s...so fucking gay, dude—tch! Wait! Lemme finish, damn,” Ray held up his arms to block the incoming pillow swipe that was aimed at his head. “I was gonna _say_ , it’s not worse than mine.” 

Ah, interesting. Brad settled the pillow down on his stomach, but didn’t drop it. He still might need to smack him with a square of soft feathers. “What was yours?”

Ray hummed and settled back on the bed, hooking both arms under his head. His elbows fanned out and one brushed against Brad’s cheek. He pushed it away—he knew how dangerous those were; sharp like the talons of a hawk. “It was your wrist.” 

Brad’s laugh bubbled up like steam trying to escape his closed mouth. “...What?” 

“Shut up! Yeah, motherfucker, it was your wrist. I don’t know. I was walking out and I looked back and you were closing the door and your wrist was just, like, there, and I knew...I’m gonna have to bite that fucking wrist.” Ray laughed through his explanation, one hand freeing to gesticulate in the air. “I don’t know why. It just happened. Had to do it.” 

“And you did,” Brad said and a puff of air escaped from his nose as he dropped the pillow to inspect his wrist. Ray _had_ bitten it at some point. Not hard, nothing that left a mark, but Brad could remember the feeling. He remembered the thought, too. _Of course Ray was a biter_. Of course he was. 

“And I fuckin’ did,” Ray agreed. Then he rolled over closer to Brad and for a moment Brad held his breath, _sure_ that Ray was going to smell like the crusty bottom of a laundry basket—but when he breathed in, it wasn’t bad. It just smelled like...Ray. And for whatever insidious reason, that smell was not offensive. He had this realization while Ray hovered over him, inspecting his nose. “Is your nose good, homes? I nailed you pretty good. It wasn’t bleeding though so I figured it was fine. It’d be a shame if your nose got all bent out of shape. How would you be the prettiest boy at the ball then?” 

Brad tried to swallow the grin that rose up under Ray’s protection, like a secret message revealed with UV light. “It’s fine. And I promise you, nose damaged or not, I am still the prettiest boy at the ball. Besides, I’m sure I did worse to you.” 

“Yeah, you sure did,” Ray said, no thought given to it. He flopped back over once he was fully satisfied that Brad’s nose didn’t seem to take any damage. “But you should be happy to hear that I think I’m finally getting used to your giant viking porn cock.” Ray said this casually as he stretched out again before he tacked on: “It was good.” 

Brad frowned. “Good?” The motherfucking nerve. He stared at Ray until he looked over, and then held the gaze even as Ray erupted into laughter. “I’m sure you’ll want to reevaluate your adjective descriptor.” 

Ray rolled his eyes, and that finally cracked Brad’s faux annoyance. “Okay, god. You’re so fuckin’ dramatic. It was fabulous. Mind-blowing. It was like the moment when Dwight Clark made The Catch for the 49ers. It was all I could do to not just blow my load instantly.” Ray glanced over at Brad, and then started laughing with him. Giggling together in bed like 12-year-olds at a sleepover was truly not Brad’s style but...well, neither was Ray. Or so he thought. So who the fuck knew anymore. 

It can’t happen again. 

That voice that Brad had tucked away was back, and suddenly very loud. The shift in mood must have been visible on his face, because he watched that same shadow reflect on Ray. 

This could not happen. They were both active military, and for fucks sake, Brad was _responsible_ for Ray. He was his Sergeant. And Ray was his RTO. And there were reasons why this sort of thing wasn’t allowed. Those reasons were hard to think of right now with Ray right next to him and the icy ache that gripped his chest, but he knew they existed. 

“Ray—” 

“I know.” Ray cut him off, but his voice didn’t sound cold, or angry, or sad. It just sounded...like he knew. Like he knew, and understood, and maybe even felt the same way. “It’s the last time.” Brad swallowed quietly while he waited for some signal of how Ray was taking it, how he was feeling, what he was thinking. Ray was hard to read sometimes. Brad thought it was because he was so used to absorbing everyone else’s emotions and churning out jokes and lighthearted mockery to brighten the mood. Maybe all those emotions got sloshed around in there, and like an elven cloak from Lord of the Rings, it granted him invisibility (what a nerdy thought, good thing he didn't say _that_ out loud). 

But then Ray smiled, and that claw around Brad’s heart loosened just a tiny bit. “It was a _damn_ good last time, though. You gotta admit.” 

Brad had slept with Ray four times, and it would never happen again. 


	2. The Fifth Last Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Troubling times indeed for Brad's temple of denial.

Brad had slept with Ray four times, and it would never happen again. 

They’d agreed to this like very competent adults that deal with their problems head-on. It was formally accepted this holiest of accords at brunch, almost a week and a half later. Brad had planned to dole out the deal over breakfast, but Ray had not risen to face the world until noon and still insisted on a plate of chocolate chip pancakes like a four-year-old. So, Brad sat across from him, sipping his coffee while Ray stabbed at a plate of syrup soaked, whipped cream-topped monstrosities. 

“So,” Ray said, mouth full. Brad made a face, nose scrunched in distaste. It made Ray roll his eyes and purposefully chew faster. He swallowed and spread his hands, as if asking permission to continue. “Is this better, princess?” 

Brad scoffed. “I am not the princess here. You’re the princess. If we’re going to assign frivolous royal labels to ourselves then I’m certainly not the princess.” He had almost said that if he were going to be anyone, he’d be the queen, but he stopped himself short of presenting Ray with  _ that _ particular gift. He would never hear the end of it, it would be 2050 and he’d be nearly dead and Ray would say ‘hey, remember when you called yourself a queen at brunch?’

“You know what? You’re right, Brad. You’re not a princess. You’ve got duchess vibes,” Ray corrected, and Brad clocked the way he swirled his fork on the plate. Ray was nervous. “I was trying to say that I think we should go out tonight.” 

Before Brad could even react to  _ that _ insane statement, Ray held up his hand and took a sip of his orange juice. Yes, orange juice and chocolate chip pancakes—the breakfast of champions, apparently. Brad ate a forkful of his omelette while he waited for the necessary explanation. 

“ _ Not  _ like that. I mean we go out tonight with some of the guys and do the kind of shit we used to do. You know, get fuckin bulldozed and find some hot bar ladies to eat out in the backseat of a range rover. Because I’ve figured it out homes. We’re just stuck in a cycle. That’s all it is. So, precedence says if we  _ break _ that cycle, we can be free of it.” Ray accented his point by tapping his index finger forcefully on the table. “We just gotta get laid.” 

“Ray, when has that scenario ever played out for you?” Brad was 100% positive Ray had never picked up a girl at a bar and thus engaged in cunnlingus while in the backseat of a range rover. He cut into his omelette with this side of his fork. “I guess that plan sounds as good as any.” Truth be told, he was incredibly uninterested in trying to woo anyone at a bar or any other venue. Brad preferred, as he had claimed many times before, to simply pay for a service. If it was merely another body that would break this spell, then he would prefer to not expend energy in the search. His time and effort was better spent in the act itself. 

“It’ll work. I’m very intelligent. I’ve done the research,” Ray said, despite the fact that both he and Brad knew that no research was done. He shoveled some pancake into his mouth and stretched his arms high over his head. Brad caught the edge of his shirt inching up. He knew the happy trail that was just out of his sight, hidden by the table. “So you’ll come to Macklin’s tonight?” 

Against his better judgement, and despite the fact that he thought Macklin’s was a breeding ground for plebeians not fit to search for mates among proper society, Brad agreed and paid the check. 

And that was the story of how Brad ended up at Macklin’s at midnight, surrounded by drunken idiots and disturbing musical choices. It was karaoke night at the bar, which was a goddamn nightmare. Was there anything he wanted to do less than listen to drunken commoners spit all over a dying microphone to Love Shack while a captive audience cheered them on in a perfect example of the decline of humanity? No, there wasn’t. But here he was, because Ray had a plan, and he wanted more than anything for that plan to  _ succeed. _

By now, most of their friends had left. Kocher had shown up with a date, a perfectly fine young woman who reminded Brad a little bit of Whitney Houston (a giant compliment if there ever was one). They left a little before eleven. Walt, the ever-gracious designated driver, had ended up driving home a gaggle of loud, drunk marines to Dennys so he could ‘sober up the buck’ before he brought them back to base. Brad spared a thought for the poor wait staff at Dennys as he finished the last of his second and final beer. He wasn’t interested in getting drunk tonight. He’d learned by now that Drunk Brad seemed to make very poor choices. 

“Do you think God just straight up forgot to dash him with a sense of embarrassment?” Poke asked, his last present friend for the evening. He followed Tony’s eyebrow raise to the karaoke microphone where Ray was currently revving up the crowd to  _ I Would Do Anything for Love _ . His arm was around some random man—some leather jacketed biker looking fellow with a big white beard and a belly that almost bumped into the microphone stand. Together, they swayed on the small platform while the group in front of them sang along and waved lighters in the air. Brad had tried very hard to tune it all out, and yet here was Poke, refusing to let him pretend this wasn’t happening. 

“I think there were many mistakes involved in his creation,” Brad countered. He shook his head and rolled his eyes at the scene one last time before he turned back to Poke, hoping that he’d offer up some new subject about how the world works. Preferably something along the lines of  _ the bees are dying due to the white man’s colonialism.  _

No such luck in Brad’s life. “Dawg, are we ever gonna talk about how he’s got you lookin’ like sad white boy on the front center of every romance movie poster in America?” Poke, it appeared, was done playing the game of denial. Brad stayed very still, gears churning, hand clenched around the beer bottle. Truth be told—Tony being forward about it was almost...a relief. Brad didn’t mind that Poke knew that he didn’t care much about the packaging of who he was fucking. Poke was part of a circle of close people in his life that he trusted. He didn’t consider himself  _ out _ , but that was due to it being no one’s fucking business (and him having a job that would  _ truly _ rather not know). He had parents who loved him, who raised him to be confident with who he was— arguably too confident at times. Poke being upfront about it was new, but neither of them  _ cared _ . The general state and affair of his emotions, however? That was  _ much _ more embarrassing, evident by the very pointed look Tony gave him over his beer. “Can we get real about this?”

Admitting that he liked Ray? No, that wasn’t a conversation he ever wanted to have. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brad said, and instead of looking at Poke he searched the bar for Ray, who had since disengaged from entertaining the masses. He found him leaning against the bar, face flushed as he talked to a girl with very fashion-forward boots on. “And I would vastly prefer that we do not.” Brad did not want to get real. He wished to remain unreal. 

Poke sat across from him with a very unimpressed look. “Damn, I thought for sure once you fucked each other you’d go back to normal. I thought, here we go dawg, the iceman is swinging back, he’s about to be focused as a motherfucker now. But I was wrong, this whole tortured white angst, crying into the beer shit? It ain’t cute.” 

Brad turned sharply back to his friend. That was  _ quite _ the information dump, and Brad had several points to make to the contrary (he was  _ not _ in the throes of tortured angst, that was pathetic, and there were absolutely zero tears to be counted, thank you). But most importantly, how in the hell had  _ that _ gotten out. “What do you mean?”

Poke’s face continued to look unimpressed. In fact, if he thought it were possible, Brad would have said he was the least impressed he’d ever seen Tony. “You think I can’t tell when two people start fucking? Like that shit doesn’t get all in the air.” Poke dipped his head and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “What’s the damn problem? Can we talk about it so I never have to bear witness to this kind of fucked up romantic comedy scene again and you can go back to standing up straight.” Poke’s mouth quirked up, like maybe there was a joke he was about to make, but he seemed to decide against it. 

“I don’t want to talk about it. There’s nothing to talk about. It would be a conversation of empty air,” Brad countered, though he was sure his ears were red by now. He was certain he hadn’t been that transparent. He blamed it entirely on the fact that Poke seemed to know more about him than he did himself, which was  _ Poke’s _ problem, and not his. “I am not in angst, or longing, or anything of the sort. I don’t want anything to happen.” 

Poke hummed a bit, but he didn’t sound too convinced. Brad’s eyes slipped back to where Ray was. The girl he was talking to was sitting down now. Her hand was on Ray’s arm. He couldn’t see her face, but her legs were crossed and her boot bobbed as she jogged her leg. She seemed to match Ray’s energy, and he was smiling. His vaguely nasal voice was higher pitched, and Brad could catch a few words here and there. He was telling some story from Australia. 

He looked a little too long. Poke followed his gaze, and had enough to look back and forth between the two twice. “Dawg.” 

“Hm?” Brad turned back, eyebrows raised as Poke shook his head in disappointment. “What.” 

“What, he asks,” Poke said, like an omniscient narrator in a novel. “This is sad. You can’t say you don’t want anything to happen and then stare at the guy like he killed your damn dog while he’s chatting someone up. You know you just did that? Cause you really just did that, and it’s embarrassing. I’m getting second-hand embarrassment.” 

Oh my god, he did just do that. Somewhere along the line he  _ had _ become a pathetic, pining asshole and that was enough to make him want to shovel a bunch of rusted metal shrapnel into his throat. Disgusting. Worse even? His friends were noticing. “I—” Brad blinked and shook his head. “It’s not important.” 

Poke scoffed and picked up his beer. “Sure it ain’t. But what’s the issue? You worried about DADT? Rank shit? The embarrassment that for some reason you like a man that looks like he could play a goblin in Lord of the Rings?” Poke made himself laugh with that one, and Brad rolled his eyes so he could push down the rebuttal that almost came out. Now was not the time to accentuate the point by defending Ray’s physical appearance.

Brad thought about the question instead. It took him a moment, but he finally decided that...no. No, it wasn’t DADT, it wasn’t his job, it wasn’t his rank. Those things certainly over-complicated it all, they played a big role but...no. It wasn’t that. “I don’t want a relationship. It’s not worth it.” 

Poke’s eyes narrowed in awareness. “Oh I get it. This is about—” 

“No, it’s not,” Brad snapped, voice strained in an effort to keep it below the threshold of chatter from the bar. “It’s not about that. It’s just common sense, and now is not a good time for anyone, and it’s not what I  _ want _ , so we can leave it at that.” Ray’s laugh broke above the crowd noise and Brad looked over to catch his grin. It made his stomach churn. That was no polite laugh, that was a real one. Ray was all squinted eyes and deep dimples, so Brad rolled his eyes and turned back to his friend. “This is a stupid conversation.” 

Poke seemed to inspect him for a moment. Brad met his gaze as Poke crossed his arms over his chest. Unimpressed. “Sure is dawg. But not for the reasons you think.” Brad only raised one eyebrow and rubbed his face, a silent  _ maybe so _ before he looked to the opposite side of the bar, away from Ray  _ and _ Poke. He still caught Poke shaking his head out of his peripheral. “You spend a long enough time worried about losing shit instead of keeping shit, then guess what? You’re gonna lose it.” 

This kind of wisdom was unwelcome in Brad’s temple of denial. He mirrored Poke, crossing his arms and sitting back on the stool. He tried to roll his eyes at that, but the words settled in his chest faster and heavier than he expected. “Better that way anyway,” Brad said, and then licked his lips. “Besides, I have to have enough angst for the sequel I’ll be dragging you through.” 

That got him a laugh and Poke reached out and punched his shoulder, hard and fast. “I’m not seeing the sequel, this first one is shit. So unless it picks up in the second half I’m gonna be asking for a mother fucking refund.” Poke checked the clock over Brad’s shoulder and downed his drink. “I gotta get going.” 

“Yeah.” Brad nodded and straightened up, waving Poke off when he tried to pull out some cash. “I got it. Consider yourself refunded.” He smiled a bit, almost apologetically, but Poke didn’t seem all too bothered. After all, he was bothered by mostly everything, so Brad figured something had to be  _ really _ extraordinary to push past Poke’s threshold for bullshit. 

“I usually don’t accept charity from the white man, but in this case it is  _ fully _ owed.” Poke re-pocketed his wallet as he stood. As he did, Ray walked past. He was following the girl he’d been with. Brad saw her then, as she turned to the side to slide through the maze of bar chairs. She looked like the kind of girl Ray would like. Cute, bold, a little bit of an edge to her. Ray wiggled his eyebrows at Poke as he walked by, and for a second, Brad caught his gaze. He didn’t say anything, but the smile on Ray’s face wilted for a moment before it picked back up. 

Then he was gone. 

Cycle broken. 

“You aren’t gonna be all sad and drunk in this bar now, are you,” Poke asked, one hand on his hip, car keys in the other. 

Brad laughed. No, he wasn’t. He was going to be just fine. “I’m all good. I’m heading out too,” he said. He grabbed his motorcycle helmet from the other chair. “Sorry to disappoint you, but the show is over.” He meant it, too. He was okay. He felt...okay. Ray left with someone, and he’d have a good night and he’d be happy, and that was what the whole point of this was about. Moving on. Getting over the speed bump. He was glad. 

Poke didn’t seem to buy it entirely, but he didn’t seem worried. “Alright. We’ll see.” He pointed at Brad, suddenly very serious. “I’m gonna need you to settle this by the 20th though. No later.” 

What? Brad’s brow furrowed. “What? What does that mean?”

Poke waved him off. “Gina and I have a bet as to when the white boys are gonna get their shit together and hold hands. She said you weren’t gonna do it this month, I said you’d get it done before the 20th because the Brad  _ I  _ know didn’t fuck around and got shit handled. But now I’m pretty sure you’re gonna need an ass kicking and I don’t want to admit I was wrong so…” Poke pointed again. “The 20th.” 

The absolute ludicrousy of that entire sentence had shaved a few years off of Brad’s ever-waning life expectancy. There was a  _ bet _ pertaining to his love life? How insulting. The injury he had received on this day would not be soon forgotten, it would come back and haunt Poke sooner than later. The next time he needed—wait. “Gina knows?” Not that Brad could... _ really _ judge Poke for sharing with his wife. 

Poke snorted. “Dawg. She knew before I did. Saw you makin’ eyes at Person when y’all came over for dinner with Walt and Gabe. If you wanna get real and talk to someone with good advice, she’s got a lot of opinions on how you both should be handling things.” 

No, no. That didn’t seem like a good time. Gina was a lovely person and Brad enjoyed her company very much but getting relationship advice from anyone, especially his best friend’s girl, was giving him actual hives. “Poke, don’t take this the wrong way, but I would rather join the reservists.” 

That was a bone-cutting statement, as far as Brad was concerned. Poke reacted accordingly, with a low whistle and fist slammed to his own chest: wounded. Mortally wounded. “I’m gonna tell her you said that.” 

Then they both left. The night air was nice and cool and Brad had not had nearly enough to drink to prevent him from taking his sweet time on the ride home. Even late at night, the scenic route was beautiful. He liked looking out over the ocean in the dark. It was so expansive, so never-ending—it made him feel very small, and that was just what he needed at a time like this. His problems were real, but the world was huge, and there were billions of problems out there right now. Some were worse, some weren’t. But they’d all pass eventually, one way or another.

The silence was pressing when he walked into his house. There was nothing like walking into the stillness of your own home, encased in darkness, not even the ticking of a clock to break the heaviness of it all. It had never bothered him before. He even used to find it peaceful and calming, like an oasis in a sea of  _ busy _ . But lately, he’d come home to noise. Ray blasting some god awful radio station and boiling a pot for pasta on the stove, or shouting at the TV as some twelve-year-old kicked his ass in Halo. His absence right now just reminded Brad where he most certainly was instead.

Nope! Brad dropped his keys on his entry table and flicked on the lights. He sure wasn’t going to think about Ray right now. He was going to be in his oasis, and soak in the  _ now _ or whatever it was that all of those hippie liberals talked about on those meditative nature walks (or as Brad liked to call it, a  _ damn regular hike _ ).

Brad sat down at his kitchen table. It was small and circular, and he hadn’t liked it at all when he bought it. But his mom had insisted he get it.  _ It fits the space better, you’ll see _ , she said, and Brad remembered standing there in the Target, pissy that he was even at Target, nearly certain that he would not see, because it would not fit the space better. 

Well. It did. It opened up the kitchen area, which had always seemed a little small. It was one long space—the front door led to the living room, and right behind that was his circle table and then the kitchen. Clean, concise, clear line of sight (which was both a good and bad thing, if he thought about it). All this to say that in the beginning he had not thought he’d be hanging onto this table for more than a few months, and now he was sure he’d stubbornly bring it to every new home he inhabited until it was ultimately passed down to another family member where it would continue to circulate within the Colberts for generations. 

Oh no.

Brad frowned at the table. He was in  _ some _ state if basic furniture was starting to remind him of Ray. It wasn’t just the table, either. It was Ray’s shit all over it. A jacket tossed over the back of one of the chairs, a half-eaten and carelessly rolled bag of sour patch kids, a ratty and well-read book, a very stupid car air freshener (it was boobs); these were the things Ray had abandoned on Brad’s kitchen table. 

Yeugh. 

Okay! He had a plan. He was going to get another beer, catch up on the news, and then get a good sleep so he could wake up early and catch a few waves before he had to report to base. It was a nice, simple plan. It had no room at all for thinking about Ray, or comparing him to tables, or thinking about what he was doing right now while Brad compared him to a table. 

He grabbed a cold beer from his fridge and popped the lid open on the nice wall bottle opener he’d stuck on the edge of his kitchen counter—an investment well-used. As the top clattered into the small recycling bin underneath it, he slumped back into the chair and folded open the newspaper. On page six there was a story about a dog that had found her way back home after a tornado destroyed the family home six months ago. That was the kind of cute bullshit nonsense that would distract him, right? As he flipped the pages, his eyes kept wandering over to the book Ray had left on his table. What was the book, anyway? What was Ray reading?

Brad pursed his lips and set down the newspaper. Technically...looking at a book that had been left on his own property was not thinking about Ray. Technically, it was only a slight deviation from the initial plan of reading the newspaper. Justification successful, he reached over and pressed his hand to the cover of the book. It was worn, and parts of it had even peeled away: Ray clearly cared about his books the same amount that he cared for his other personal effects.

Jazz, by Toni Morrison. Brad knew who she was of course, but he hadn’t read anything from her. Most of what he’d read growing up were the “classics” as decided by his school curriculum (though Brad never knew who made the decision as to what became a classic and what didn’t). When he got older, his tastes had strayed toward non-fiction and autobiographical works. His fingers drifted over the creased cover, a deep royal purple with the letters in a dull gold. 

The innards, Brad soon discovered, were just as torn up as the cover. Pages were ear-marked, and he couldn’t leaf through for a second without a bright, highlighted passage that stuck out sharply on the cream colored pages. He also quickly noticed that Ray had scribbled notes on the inside. Some were short, in a code that Brad certainly couldn’t decipher. Others were longer—one he followed on the margins of at least four pages. Brad sipped the beer, cold and light on his tongue, and searched for something that stuck out. 

One page had a particularly important looking note. The highlighted phrase that Ray had riffed off of was sitting there neat in blocked letters: “ _ Violet learned then what she had forgotten until this moment: that laughter is serious. More complicated, more serious than tears.”  _ Ray’s scribble, much less neat with words cut off due to the tight space he was trying to fill, read:  _ You laugh when you’re happy, you laugh when you’re sad, when you’re nervous, when you’re mad. Don’t remember where I heard this but that whole laughter is the shortest distance between two people thing is real. I don’t think you know someone until you’ve seen them laugh. I mean really laugh too not the bullshit chuckle behind the hand. Comedians aren’t sad people, they’ve just really seen too many people. You look into too many souls, sometimes you fucking collapse. Violet forgot how to see people. Motif: laughter. Life motif: laughter. Never forget how to see people.  _

It was almost uncomfortably deep. It was not the Ray that everyone else knew: the loud, foul-mouthed tiny devil that ran around chattering about conspiracy theories and new business endeavors. This was a Ray that Brad was sure only a few people knew. He was one of them. He’d met this Ray before. He’d met him late at night when conversations turned from playful mockery to real issues, like Brad’s break-up, or Ray’s childhood. It was the Ray that he saw when they slept together. Both versions were Ray, and one couldn’t exist without the other, but this Ray was...exclusive. 

Brad knew Ray was smart, he knew that before he joined the military he’d been considering going to college for philosophy (a waste of damn time, in Brad’s opinion). But reading this, Brad felt like he’d been reading a diary: something that wasn’t meant for anyone else’s eyes. It felt private, personal, and special all at once and it twisted something in his gut. The feeling was familiar and the name of it grazed his fingertips but he closed his hand and pushed it away. The feeling was not welcome at his table. The feeling was not part of his plan. 

Brad flipped the pages, skimming with his thumb until he stopped on another chunk of highlighted text. He didn’t even know what this book was about, or what drew Ray to read it as many times as he did. He was hoping somewhere in these passages he’d find the answer. 

_ “Anything that happens after this party breaks up is nothing. Everything is now. It's like war. Everyone is handsome, shining, just thinking about other people's blood. As though the red was flying from veins not theirs is facial makeup patented for its glow. Inspiriting. Glamorous. Afterward there will be some chatter and recapitulation of what went on; nothing though like the action itself and the beat that pumps the heart. In war or at a party everyone is wily, intriguing; goals are set and altered, alliances rearranged. Partners and rivals devastated; new pairings triumphant. The knockout possibilities knock Dorcas out because here— with grown-ups and as in war— people play for keeps.”  _

Hmm. Brad scanned for Ray’s comment.  _ Never been to a party like that, seems like a fuckin’ stressful event. Pretty sure this is the kind of beefed-up talk that gets river-cleaning highway-adopting liberals thinking they know what it’s like to be in a war.  _ Brad grinned. Yeah, he could hear Ray saying that. He could hear the lisp in his voice, where he’d probably place his emphasis, even the kind of gestures he might make. Brad was so engaged in the thought that he almost missed an addition to the note, in different colored ink, closer to the bottom.  _ I take it back. War is all about the now. For the winners. For the losers, all that matters is the after. But it’s still not glamorous. Plenty of handsome shining assholes though. I’ll give her that.  _

He still had no damn idea what this book was about. Who was Dorcas and why was she comparing a party to war? Brad flipped the book over briefly, but there wasn’t much of a plot summary to give him any indication of what the issue was. He’d probably have to read it himself, which he wouldn’t actually ever get done. Besides, this was just a minor distraction. Soon he’d have to nicely stack all of Ray’s things, and clean the dishes in his sink, and then he’d go to bed and everything would be nice and normal. 

He reopened the book, this time to the first page because dammit he was going to get some understanding of this story if it killed him. He was halfway through the first page when his front door burst open with a bang and Brad froze, eyes lighting first on the trembling fern on the entry table that he now knew was much too close to the door, and then on Ray. 

“You motherfucker, you cockblocking motherfucker, you know what, you have some nerve. I was going to have a good night, you know, I was moving on because  _ you _ said it was the  _ last _ time, and I got to this girl’s house, her name was Nadine, and she was really fuckin’ cool by the way, she’s a really nice person, but I got all the way to her house and I walked in and everything felt fucking  _ bad _ , and then all I could think about was your stupid pouty face at the bar, and I  _ left _ , and for what! For what, Brad, for  _ why _ did I leave Nadine, who was really fucking cool? Who the fuck knows? I don’t! There’s no fucking good reason for passing up optimal, prime pussy attached to an optimal prime human that was actually into me, and—are you reading my book?” 

Brad had not moved a muscle since Ray had exploded into his home. It was partly due to the shock of it happening at all (it was, after all, not in the plan). The other half of it was being caught snooping, sitting there at his table with a beer in one hand and Ray’s book in the other. “Uh…” His eyebrows rose, and for a beat neither of them moved. Then Brad closed the book. “No.” 

Ray looked about as confused as Brad felt, which was rich considering he was the one who had apparently driven all the way over here with the intent to, presumably, yell at Brad about how he hadn’t been able to seal the deal. “...You literally were Brad you can’t say No and close the book and act like you weren’t that’s—I mean it doesn’t even fuckin’ matter, homes. Actually, you should read it. I’ve got a lot of things to say about it and I don’t have anyone to talk to who has read it and I’m like...this close to just standing at a freeway exit and shouting it at cars that pass by—I have something to say.” 

Brad nodded silently, eyes just a little wider than normal. Clearly, Ray had something to say. He was talking in sweeping blocks with thoughts that seemed a little tangled. Brad had barely parsed through the first speech and couldn’t afford to bank to the second yet. “Yeah, I can see that you do. I’ve got a question for you though...in the swampland trailer park you grew up in, was it normal to just barge into other people’s homes unannounced at any hour of the night? Were you raised by Saint Nicholas’ elves? Do you have no concept of property ownership and trespassing?”

Ray took a deep breath and then let it out through a slightly closed mouth so his lips trilled together like a horse. Brad watched him think as the door remained open behind him. Ray’s truck was parked on the street. He’d have to move it before 0600 when the sweepers came around. “Yes, it was totally normal because we were so poor and swampy that we didn’t even have doors, Brad. Just open frames, and we’d have to make the knocking sounds with our mouths. As a child I grew up hearing the myth of doors. Knobs were a fuckin’ unicorn— _ No _ , Brad, obviously this is not a normal fucking occurance. And  _ you _ were reading my book so obviously  _ you _ have no concept of property ownership—wait, tch.” Ray pinched his nose and sunk his weight to one side. “You’re fucking distracting me. Stop distracting me.” 

“I’m distracting you?” Brad scoffed and rolled his eyes as he turned to face Ray. The chair creaked underneath him as he crossed his left knee over his leg. “How am I distracting you, you came here out of nowhere and have since said 94 percent of the words so I fail to see how I am the one being distracting at this moment.” Why had he left his door unlocked? Brad never left his door unlocked out of habit. It was an ingrained movement to close the door and lock it behind him. Why hadn’t he done that tonight? “You’re a little too comfortable in my space.” 

Ray threw his hands in the air with a sharp  _ Ha! _ He even did a full turn, as if there were some crowd behind him he were gesturing too. Brad clamped down on his laugh but it still came out as a snort. “Ohoho, you think so, okay, we will  _ get _ to that statement in a second because I have a point to make and you are gonna listen to it.” Ray pointed at him, nodding emphatically, and his eyes looked a little wild with his eyebrows hiked as high as they were. Brad couldn’t decipher this energy that was pouring out of him. It wasn’t anything clean—not anger, not sadness, not joy...nothing he could define. It was messy. Ray was messy. Brad settled back in his chair, hand outstretched with a regal roll of his wrist: a  _ very well, go ahead _ if there had ever been one. 

“Okay, I came out tonight with the purpose of being fucked. That was the entire point. I even sang the sexiest song known to mankind so I could pick up some hottie with a nose ring and probably an anchor tattoo on her ankle. That’s a fuckin’ pipe dream for me, most nights, you know. But today whatever fuckin’ God decided to put a girl in that bar that was nice, and cool, and fuckin’ hot,  _ and into me _ . And we hit it the fuck off. You know what, I could have fucked her, and I could have fucked her again, and we could have you know... _ maybe _ been happy, possibly, assholery permitting. I’m saying I had an  _ out _ , Brad. I had a fuckin’ out. And I...didn’t take it. I didn’t take it! And that….is  _ your _ problem. Yup. You owe me a good fuck.” Ray finished on a quieter note, but he sounded very sure as he put his hands on his hips and nodded his head. He chewed on his lip for a moment, contemplative, before he turned back to Brad. “Yeah you owe me some sex.” 

Brad was still trying to process everything that had happened in the last five minutes. The reality of what Ray was saying...that was something he didn’t want to touch with a ten foot pole. The implications that simmered right under the surface of Ray’s outburst were best left right where they were. He was so busy trying to shove away the fact that Ray had left someone else’s place to come to him that he almost missed the last part. “...What?” Brad almost laughed again, if only in disbelief. “I owe you sex?”

“Yes,” Ray said, and then paused and slumped his shoulders with a quick eye roll. “Well, no, you don’t  _ owe me sex _ because that’s fucked up, right...but also, you owe me sex.” Then he smiled, and the knot in Brad’s stomach flipped. “I would have been rolling around in pretty smelling lady sheets if it weren’t for your dopey sad ass.” 

Oh, no. No one ever called Bradley Colbert  _ dopey _ , that was a cardinal sin. Brad must have had a visceral and physical reaction to those words, because Ray chuckled and his nose scrunched up. “First of all, call me dopey again and I’ll be happy to introduce you to a mirror so you can learn the true definition of the word. Secondly—I fail to see how anything I did had any bearing on you failing to make it to home base. That sounds like a personal problem, Ray. And I am not a therapist.” As Brad spoke, he loosened. The tension that floated in through the open door seemed to dissipate. That always seemed to happen. The longer he talked to Ray the less... _ everything _ everything felt. 

“It just is.” Ray finally closed the door behind him. He locked it and Brad watched his hand linger on the doorknob for a few moments before he turned back. He kicked off his shoes by stepping on the heels and then shuffled his way into the kitchen where his eyes lit on the jacket he’d left behind. “Don’t ask questions. You took away my sex, you should henceforth provide some sex. I don’t make the rules.” 

Brad reached out to swipe the jacket off the chair and hand it to Ray, who took it and immediately started to string his arms through the holes. “I don’t think it works that way, and I did not  _ take away _ your sex. You failed to follow through. It seems like you just maybe don’t want to get your dick wet tonight because she was clearly very into you. A vestigial growth could have sealed the deal.” Brad shrugged a shoulder and took a noncommittal sip of his beer because Ray’s lack of fucking was not his concern. It definitely shouldn’t have made him smile into the neck of his bottle, and it definitely shouldn’t have churned another knot over in his stomach. They were definitely knots. Brad did not get  _ butterflies _ because he was not some prepubescent teen drawing hearts in a notebook during class.

Ray finished slugging his jacket on and huffed. “No, dumbass, obviously I want to fuck, alright. Since when do I not want to fuck. I just didn’t want to fuck her I wanted to fuck—” Ray sucked in a deep breathe to cut himself off and his hands came to grip around the back of the kitchen chair. There, arms locked, he arched his back and bared his throat to the ceiling like he was expecting a higher being to come down and smite him. Brad almost wished something  _ would _ . They’d been  _ very careful _ up until now about avoiding direct statements like that. It was important to the very beautiful world of denial Brad was crafting. 

No one seemed to be breathing in Brad’s house. He was sure even his friendly little fern had stopped photosynthesizing. He could hear the rush of blood in his ears (they must be very red) as he watched Ray lick his lips and hunch his shoulders, every muscle in his body tight until he finally let out his exhale. His elbows unlocked and he crashed down, bopping his head on the chairback. “—Why did you let me say that, I can’t fucking believe you.” 

The indignancy of that question bounced Brad back into reality. He blinked once, twice, and then pulled his chin back toward his neck so deeply it almost hurt. “Oh, I didn’t realize I had the ability to stop you from saying things. Had I known that there are  _ several  _ things I would have muted out of existence.” Brad meant it as a joke, an unconscious lightening to the heaviness that settled in just as it was starting to leave. That was a tactic he’d learned from Ray, but he didn’t seem interested in practicing what he preached. Instead, Ray pulled the chair out. It groaned against the hardwood and he slumped into it, tired and defeated. 

“This is a fucking mess,” Ray said, lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at the middle of the table. His arms came to rest over Brad’s discarded newspaper and Brad watched as Ray picked at his nails without looking at them. “...I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.” 

Brad looked at him for a moment, silent. There had been so many things that would have driven him crazy tonight, if it had been any other person. Someone barging into his home? Anyone else might have gotten a swift elbow to the face. But he knew it was Ray before he even  _ knew _ it was Ray, like the idea of anyone else intruding on this space at this house was impossible. So...he knew what Ray was thinking. He’d been thinking it too. Some big, jealous, unsilenceable part of him had hoped that Ray would come back to him, despite everything to the contrary. Despite the fact that he’d said, again and again, that nothing was happening here and whatever  _ had _ happened would need to stop. 

But right then, he felt guilty. He felt...like a big storm that tore up everything in its path and now Ray was caught in the whirlwinds he made. Brad knew, at the heart of it, that it took two of them to make these decisions. He couldn’t claim all of this mess as much as he wanted to pull it off of Ray’s shoulders.  _ This isn’t your fault. It’s me, I’m the one who can’t stay in line.  _

Words like that were too big, they didn’t fit in his throat. He reached out and rested his hand on Ray’s arm. The jacket sleeves were thick, but he could feel the fabric give until he met the solid of Ray’s wrist underneath it all. He thought that said more, maybe, then he could with words. Or at least...he hoped it did. 

Ray’s neck rolled, almost comically, until his head was tilted down and he was staring at Brad’s hand on his arm. Together, they stared at the point of contact. “Your hand is on my arm,” Ray said, very factual. Out of the corner of Brad’s eye (he was still staring at his own hand) he saw the corners of Ray’s lips turn up. More importantly, the dimple dipped in. Brad appreciated the topography of Ray’s face, but the highlight was certainly that little dimple. 

“...So it is.” Brad nodded, still staring at his hand. He couldn’t help but smile himself. It all suddenly seemed  _ so  _ dramatic, like a scene in the movie where a husband has to comfort a wife who has just heard that her father has passed. The phone would be off the hook, cord dangling between them. A dial tone would ring through the air. 

The laughter was infectious. Brad couldn’t say who started it first, but soon they were both chuckling. “That’s dangerous, Brad,” Ray said, a lilt in his voice that hadn’t been there earlier. It was accompanied by a brightness in his eyes that inflated Brad’s lungs. “Especially since you  _ know _ how I feel about your wrists.” 

That made Brad really laugh; the deep, belly kind of laugh that you have to turn away from. He ducked his head and almost pulled away his hand, but Ray’s hand clamped on top of it. “Too late to back out now, motherfucker,” he teased, but he was also laughing. And laughing, as Brad recently learned, was a very serious thing. 

That popped the bubble. Each time they met like this, the resistance felt like trying to match up two kitchen magnets at the center. The pushing, that was impossible. But there was a moment there when the magnetic poles created an arc between them, and the magnets could glide there, around each other, like orbits. That’s what this felt like. They couldn’t... _ be _ , you know,  _ magnetic _ . But they could be like this. And Brad would take Ray’s orbit over nothing any day of the week. “So, what happened then? With Nadine?” 

Ray scoffed and shook his head, finally releasing Brad’s hand so he could rub the back of his neck. “Yeah, I feel shitty about that. She was just trying to get some dick and I fucked up her night but uh...no, she was cool. Like I said.” 

“What did you tell her?” Brad asked, knowing full well that he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t be asking those questions but he wanted to know. Not as a product of how he felt, but because Ray was his best friend, and best friends...they talked about that kind of stuff. Fucking or not, Brad cared about those things. “Shouldn’t feel shitty about that. There are a lot of things you should feel shitty for, Ray. Your fashion choices are one of many.” Brad gestured to the jacket. It was ill-fitting and looked like it was ten years old. Comfortable, Brad thought. But comfort did not a stylish outfit make. “But this shouldn’t be one of them.” 

In a quick swipe, Ray had nabbed Brad’s beer. He wiggled his eyebrows at Brad as he took a sip, and then frowned and held the bottle away to look at the label. “Fuck you, homes. This is something to feel shitty about. This is terrible. Why can’t you just stick to the basic American beers that this country was  _ built _ on.” Ray waved a hand in the air, like he was wafting away distracting thoughts. “I uh…” He paused, and then glanced back to Brad. This look was different; a little more curious. Brad could almost see him debating himself, trying to decide which answer he was going to go with. He knew before he said it that it would be the truth. “I told her that I was trying to get over someone and I just wasn’t ready yet. I thought I was but I wasn’t. And then she said she was too, and we talked about it a little.” Ray held up his palm before Brad had a chance to respond. “Don’t worry, I know you’d rather take an electric eel to the dick before you let anyone talk about your business without your  _ written permission _ . So I called you Blake. Your name is Blake, and you bake.”

“I cannot be responsible for your terrible palate, that is between you and the woman who had the misfortune to birth you.” Brad snatched his beer back, a little insulted at the implication that it was  _ him _ with bad taste, and not Ray with literally no ability to discern a good beer if it sucked his dick. But his face softened as Ray continued. “...Blake sounds like a pussy,” he concluded.

Ray snorted and shook his head. “Yeah, well, he’s modeled after one, so.” The cheeky grin he ended that statement on almost made up for the wounding insult. Brad grabbed Ray’s packed of sour patch kids and launched it at his face. Ray squawked— but then he realized they were sour patch kids and unrolled the bag. As Brad watched him fish around for the red ones, he thought a little more. Underneath everything Ray said there was something very sad. Brad was someone he needed to get over. Brad knew what it felt like, to have to get over someone. It wasn’t the same scenario, clearly...but he knew that ache. 

“—I’m sorry,” Brad said. It felt like all he could say. Sorry to Ray, yes. But also sorry to himself. Sorry that he had met Ray when he did, and that their circumstances made everything so difficult. Mostly, he was sorry that Ray liked  _ him _ . Maybe he had never fallen into Ray’s trap at all. Maybe Ray had fallen into his trap that he had unwittingly set. It was unfair. Because Brad knew, just like he knew that his beer was  _ the best _ available, that even if they weren’t in the military, and even if rank wasn’t an issue, and DADT wasn’t an issue— he was still damaged goods. They would still be right here. Brad wasn’t a person who could  _ do _ relationships. He didn’t  _ want  _ to do relationships. At least he hadn’t, for a long while. Maybe all the things everyone talked about were finally coming to pass: all that bullshit about time healing wounds, and distance raising him up, and the right person coming along to fill that hole...

“It’s okay,” Ray said, and he sounded like he meant it. He sounded...relieved, actually. Maybe saying that felt good. Imagine that concept: saying how you felt could feel  _ good? _ Blasphemy. It didn’t work that way for Brad. He couldn’t just pop out and say hey, I like you a frightening amount and I’d like to do something about it but I can’t because there’s nothing to be done. He couldn’t say that, because that would lead to the door he didn’t want to open. 

He didn’t  _ want _ a relationship. He didn’t want that high, because there was always,  _ always _ a low. And fuck, yes, the highs with Ray would be sky scraping. But the lows...those would devastate him. And Brad couldn’t survive another rupture. He couldn’t do a relationship—but he could glide in this orbit. Maybe that was enough for the both of them. And God, that wasn’t fair to Ray. It wasn’t. He knew it. But Brad wasn’t strong enough to let him go. 

“You know,” Brad crossed his arms over his chest and extended his legs just enough so that his chair tipped back. “I’ve been thinking that  _ owing _ you sex is a little different than organic fucking.”

Ray folded his hands underneath his chin and blinked at Brad, a move that was awfully endearing this late at night. “Well that’s a weird as fuck thing to say,” Ray said, eyebrows raised. “Please e-la-bo-rate.” Each syllable was accented and exaggerated.

Brad planned to. “They just seem to be two separate concepts, is all. So, technically speaking, the last time would still be...the last time, and this would be adjacent to that. Due to the fact that it is what you’re owed.” Brad grinned a bit, unable to keep a straight face through his own bullshit. Look, he tried. He tried, tonight, to follow his rules. He hadn’t broken them, so to speak. He merely added a few caveats. 

Ray’s nose scrunched up and his voice was tied up in laughter. “Oh,  _ now _ you want to fuck. You couldn’t have wanted to fuck earlier when I was all fired up?” Ray shook his head and leaned back in the chair. His head rolled to the left and he raised an eyebrow at Brad. “Well, motherfucker, the mood was officially zapped so you’re gonna have to seduce me.” 

Well.  _ That _ wasn’t happening. “I am  _ not _ seducing you, Ray.” Quite frankly, Brad thought his mere presence should have been seductive enough. 

“You’re gonna have to.” Ray’s eyebrows wiggled and his smile grew like the phases of a moon. “Come on, you know how to do it. A little flattery? Tell me I’m the most handsomest man you ever did see? Pick some flowers from your backyard for me? Grill me a midnight steak? Do a little dance in the living room?”

Everything on that list was giving Brad a verifiable allergic reaction. “No. Absolutely not.” He shook his head and started to stack the things on his kitchen table. It wasn’t until he was halfway through that he realized he should separate his things from Ray’s things. 

Ray slumped, and Brad didn’t need to look at him to know the exact kind of pout that he was doing. “Tch, fine then.” There was a brief pause. “I guess I’ll just have to seduce you.” 

Brad stood up from the table. He was not going to validate this conversation any further with that ridiculous statement up for grabs. “Ray, I say this truthfully, from the heart—that is simply not possible.” Oh, it was very possible. Apparently, Ray didn’t need to do a damn thing to seduce Brad. Half the time Ray could be doing something so repulsive that it could be considered anti-seduction, and Brad would still be interested. 

But Ray sure as shit didn’t need to know that. 

“Are you  _ sure _ about that,” Ray said from behind Brad as he dumped the last bit of beer from his bottle into the sink before he dropped it in the recycling bin. When he turned around, he was faced with Ray draping himself over the kitchen counter, eyelashes fluttering as his hand made a sweeping motion right under his... _ oh for fucks sake.  _

“Your nose does not turn me on, Ray,” Brad said, despite the fact that it...sure did the last time. And even now, when it had no discernable reason to interest him, he felt his cheeks warm. It wasn’t the damn nose, it was the ridiculousness of it all. He would  _ not _ let Ray get away with thinking his nose had the power to summon erections from the deep. That was something he’d never be able to live down. 

Ray waggled a finger at him. “That wasn’t what I heard last time, Bradley. Don’t be ashamed, this face has brought even the strongest of people to their knees. I’m like Helen of Troy.”

Brad did not dignify that with a response either. He merely eyed Ray over his shoulder as he started to rinse the few dishes that were left in his sink. Brad normally cleaned them right away, but schedule not permitting, he would always clean them before he went to sleep. Usually it was a meditative experience. Tonight it was a turnstile that he had to get past. “Helen of Troy was the most beautiful woman in the world.” Tch, he wasn’t planning on commenting. Alas. “Your nose is the exact thing that disqualifies you.” 

He heard Ray moan and knew exactly what he was doing: hand to his chest, knees buckling under him as if he’d been shot by an arrow in the heart. “You wound me. Don’t know how I’ll recover. You know who would never say those things to me?” Ray came around Brad’s side and opened the dishwasher. That was the extent of his assistance, it seemed. “Blake would never do this to me.” 

“Why don’t you go see him then?” Brad grinned as he bent down to place a bowl in the dishwasher. “Since you seem to be missing him so much. I would hate to stand in the way of star-crossed lovers.” 

Ray leaned against his counter. Brad caught the sheen of his bony knuckles as he gripped it from behind. “I should go see him. He’d probably greet me with some brownies and a candle-lit bake spread. It was his dream to open up Blake’s Bakery, after all.”

The snort that came out of Brad’s nose was a little too loud. He finished loading the dishwasher and hooked it up with his foot until he could grab it with his hand and click it shut. He jabbed the on button with his finger. “It’s surprising you would use baking in this imaginary scenario, seeing as you couldn’t follow a recipe if your life depended on it.” 

“That’s because I don’t  _ need _ a recipe, Brad. I've evolved past the need. It’s all in the eye, homes. But don’t worry, I know that not everyone has reached this advanced stage in their baking career. You shouldn’t feel ashamed that you still have to follow the recipe.” Ray said this with an air of trickery to him. He knew exactly what he was doing, and  _ Brad _ knew what he was doing. His knowledge did nothing to stop his reaction. 

“Ray, baking is an  _ exact _ science. You cannot  _ eye _ the measurements. That is why the measurements are measured. Because the cohesion of the baked good requires very specific parameters. You can’t just grab a handful of flour and toss it in the bowl and call it baking. That is incorrect chaos, and I won’t be tolerating it in my kitchen.” Brad crossed his arms over his chest as Ray laughed hard enough that he had to bend over to catch his breath. It made Brad want to simultaneously kick his tiny ass out of his house and toss that same ass onto his bed. 

Especially since that ass was now rummaging through his cabinets. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m looking for the ingredients I’m gonna need to make you muffins and prove you extremely fuckin’ wrong, that’s what I’m doing.” Ray lifted up to his toes to look into a higher cabinet, which would have distracted Brad entirely had he not been so perturbed by that statement. 

The bridge of his nose would certainly have lasting imprints from being pinched as frequently as it had been in the last few months. “Get into the bedroom and out of my cabinets before I call animal control.” Muffins. The insanity of it all. “You will not be making muffins in my kitchen unless you plan to follow the  _ recipe _ .” 

“Oh, we’ll see,” Ray said. He pulled away from the cabinets anyway, and Brad tried to read the expression on his face. If his own experience was anything to go by, he’d say that at some point in the last five minutes, Ray had been properly seduced. The skin around his eyes had a tightness to it and his tongue kept sliding out to glide over his lips like a snake testing the air. “I still haven’t gotten my grand seduction gesture.” 

But they both knew that somehow, he had. Brad couldn’t begin to place what it was. Maybe it was the insults that Ray had always understood meant the exact opposite. Maybe it was the recipe rant. Maybe it had even been the dishwashing; after all, Brad had found himself entranced by Ray completing many mundane tasks. 

Whatever it may have been didn’t matter soon enough, because whatever it was had them both heading to the bedroom with a bit of urgency. Somewhere in that short walk from point A to point B, Brad thought about how easily that urgency came up—but also of how easily he could have made the choice to disengage. 

Fuck that. He was going to  _ fuck that _ . 

Brad stared up at the ceiling a while later. He was tired now. It was late, and he had expended a lot of energy in the past hour. It was almost three thirty now and he would have been getting up in just an hour or two to surf. His entire plan had been stripped from the book, crumpled up, and tossed overhand into the trash bin. 

It didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. 

“You should really read that book,” Ray said. He was laying pretty close and he had bunched up the pillow under his head for more lift. Brad wondered if maybe he should get an extra pillow, and then remembered that Ray would certainly not be in here again so it would  _ not _ be an issue. “One of my favorites, you know? And no one has read it. It’s a fuckin’ travesty.” 

“Why do you like it?” Brad asked. He took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. The idle conversation was nice, but he could feel himself drifting. He focused in despite his sleepiness, genuinely interested in the answer. 

Ray didn’t answer right away. He could feel him fumbling around, trying to get comfortable, yanking the covers a little more to his side. Brad thought about getting up and grabbing him another blanket but he was  _ tired _ , and Ray knew where they were. “It’s a complicated book, you know? Different from a lot of the shit I read in school. Shit like The Great Gatsby or Grapes of Wrath or like...The Scarlet Letter. Those books are good too but— I don’t know it’s just the same kind of perspective over and over again. Like I’ve read enough about the white man’s struggle, as Poke would say. The way this book deals with violence, and the repercussions of generations of violence, and displacement and motherhood and community and, you know,  _ jazz _ . It’s just so fucking good. It’s different. It makes me think. I like shit that makes me think about something that I would never have to think about. That’s the only way we get change in the world, right? Perspective. Books are a hell of a way to do that. Nothing helps you see where someone is coming from like a book.” 

Brad had opened his eyes at some point during that talk, just so he could watch Ray while he spoke. Ray wasn’t looking at him. He was staring up at the ceiling with one hand resting on his stomach. He gestured lazily from its resting place there, accentuating his words. He looked very peaceful. Brad didn’t know if that was from the fucking or the conversation. Maybe both. 

“I mean, I know  _ books _ aren’t gonna change the world, I’m not a fucking moron. I just think, you know, the ability to look outside yourself and shit like that? Readers are good at that. Because they do it all the damn time.” Ray paused, and Brad watched the corner of his mouth twist up in a smile. “Eh, mostly. There are definitely racist, sexist, all other kinds of -ist readers out there. But it still helps, if you ask me.” His eyes slid over to Brad, smile still in place. “So fuckin’ read it, homes.” 

Brad flipped the covers off of him and got out of bed. “Well, now I have to,” he said, because he sure did after that speech. Besides, if it made Ray happy, and it had the benefit of being a good book, then what was the harm in that? He stepped half-way out into the hallway to open his linen closet and wrap his hands around the fluffy blue blanket he usually saved for winter. “You have a part you liked the best?”

Ray watched him bring the blanket back with a curious little smirk. Brad threw the blanket at his face to get rid of it. By the time he got back under his covers, Ray had unfolded the blanket and covered himself up all the way to his neck. “You’ll have to find out.” 

Of course. Brad rolled his eyes, but the little challenge that lingered in those words did excite him. Really, the idea of travelling through the sea of Ray’s notes to locate his favorite passage  _ was _ kind of enticing. “Fine.” Brad rolled over on his side and suddenly felt a pang of anxiety at how  _ normal _ that felt. The first time he’d slept with Ray, they’d shared the bed out of sheer drunkenness. The second time, they hadn’t. Ray had left after a while, unwilling to cross that line. The third time, though...he stayed. And he’d stayed the last time too. And now, after just  _ three _ times, Brad found himself bothered by his own unbotheredness. This should bother him. Why didn’t it? 

How bothersome. 

“May I do the honors this time?” Ray seemed to sense Brad’s discomfort, or so Brad discerned based on the tone of his voice. He was facing away by now, and had no urge to turn back. 

“What honors?” Brad checked the clock on the nightstand. With one hand he deftly changed the alarm from five to seven. 

Ray shuffled again, and Brad waited for his answer. He could picture his position, tight in a ball. He knew by now that it wouldn’t last. Ray slept like he was possessed by a demon. The closest reference Brad had for it was like a spreading starfish over the sea floor. It didn’t matter where you went to get away from a limb. Eventually, that limb would crawl its way into your personal space. “This is the  _ last _ time,” Ray finally said. 

Brad almost smiled. Almost. Because dammit, it was the truth. It wasn’t even the last time, really, as this had been an adjacent event. It was the last time, adjacent to the previous last time. But it was nice. It was an ending. Closure, as some people call it. 

That’s what Brad told himself as he finally started to drift to sleep. He’d blame the tiredness on the lack of sensical arguments re:closure. Closure? This was far from closing anything, and he knew it. His walls of denial were made of wood. Stronger than straw, but the harder that wolf blew, the more they started to shake. 

But it was still standing. 

Brad had slept with Ray five times. 

It would be the last time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this was entirely self-indulgent.

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILER ALERT: it happens again.


End file.
